Slow Resign
by LexciAstreo
Summary: Arriving home to his family, John replenishes his love for both his wife and his son.
1. Chapter 1

**Slow Resign**

With the trees slowly swaying far in the distance, John Marston began his journey home; his loyal and loving wife playing on his mind, caressing his young son. The sunset was foreboding, casting his shadow far along the dusty dirt track on which he was trekking with his trusty ride.  
>In the distance birds were calling, crying out to signal the night was near, and the dangers of which it involved. Strangers pass unseen, unnoticed, almost invisible against the darkness; just the whites of their eyes separating them from the black, John looking them up and down warily knowing the dangers of these ways. Birds soon quieten down and kicking his mare up into a canter, John begins to see the sight of his small hold of land, Beecher's Hope. Hope, as it seems, was the most accurate name for this little settlement.<p>

Swinging his right leg over the saddle and firmly landing on the ground, he hears Abigail calling from the house, calling Jack. She is announcing his father's return, and how he needs to come in for his supper.  
>"Jack! Pa's home; get here now." Although Abigail was a sweet woman, with a heart too big for the life she's dealt with, she could have a sharp tongue and a scornful hand if you were not where you was to be when she wanted you. John watched as his eight year old son flew from the corral to the house within seconds, knowing of his mothers' short temper when she was not in the right mood; today was one of those days.<br>"You said you'd be home earlier today, not gallivanting with the folk in Blackwater." John saw what almost looked like betrayal in his wife's eyes. He had known he had lied to her. Even if it was not in spite, he knew he had hurt her. Wanting to hold her and apologise, he moved in to grab her in a lovingly way; he could not stand being away from her, the way she holds herself when he arrives home, gently leaning against the door frame of the front door.  
>As he took this one willing step up the porch onto the sun-soaked wood, Abigail slowly took a step back. "No. Not this time. I am so tired, John. I'm so tired of you telling me 'yes I shall be home early' and then failing. I'm so tired." One last look into the eyes of her husband, and she turned away, back to slave over the stew which had been cooking for hours. Perhaps now was not the best time to tell Abigail that he had, in fact, won them some money in order for him to take them away.<p>

As John consumed this mouth-watering food – he would tell Abigail that she was an awful cook, but he faintly resented her abilities in the kitchen – he began looking towards her with a reproachful look. There it is he thinks to himself; the small glint within her eyes which she does not believe is there. Forgiveness. She is a very naïve woman when she wants to be, thus, a small smile finds itself extending across his scarred, weather worn face.  
>"What you smiling at Pa?" Jack was looking at his father with bewilderment; he only sees this smirk when his parents are not talking. He is only confused.<br>"Just your mother," he looks at her in a way that can only be described as true love. "Just your mother, Jack."  
>"What about her?" John relieves a laugh which has been held in his chest, his son is so delicate and so innocent, he cannot understand the emotions attached to a woman who has stood by your side, through both thick and thin, and still stood the test of time.<br>"You will understand when you're older."  
>In silence, the rest of the stew was eaten, with small remnants of gravy left behind, and a few green beans on Jack's plate. Abigail elegantly rose from her chair, with barely a few ear splintering scrapes, swooping in on those dirty plates that only she can clean with no complaints or leftovers left. The men in this house are incompetent in the cleaning department of life, what would they do without her.<p> 


	2. Realistic Love

**Realistic Love**

With Jack asleep when the clock strikes midnight, John and Abigail have the house to themselves. The fire crackling deeply in front of the married couple, Abigail rested her head on John's lap, gazing up his bare chest, from his strong jawline freshly shaved, to the scars resting upon his nose. His pectoral muscles protruding from his ribs in a wave-like fashion, she slowly traces his skin with her four fingers, fearless of the bullet wound acquired outside of Fort Mercer; in unison, John traces her fragile, bony hands, mirroring her actions. He begins to hold her, lifting her petite body and gently places her sat on his lap, holding her back, pulling her towards him.

Lips part in synchronisation. Hands frantically grabbing, pulling, pushing; they must remember to pick up the trail of clothes before the morning. Laughing as belts are difficult to undo when in such a hurry, a red mist landing within the room as lust takes them both over. Lust, passion and love, three things all in a relationship have ever come across, maybe not all at once, but always the three; most commonly is the sin.

Sprawled across the sheets, John slowly takes over Abigail, whom has become entangled within them, her gasps echoing throughout the room as she is controlled by the one man in her life. He holds her convulsing body with one powerful arm, the other firmly holding her pelvis down as the love between them passes through her body in waves, one after the other. Removing his firm grip around her exposed body, he gently clasped his hand over her mouth as she moans through his fingers. He slowly drew himself away from her, and slowly removed his hand as she continued her heavy breathing, laying his head on her body. Abigail grabbed his hair and slowly encouraged his head to her mouth; she knew he was not finished yet.

Slow kissing and grabbing began, gently caressing of the skin continued, and playful tugs of one another's hair. John slowly made his way down her body, biting her neck with force, grasping her breasts in his hands, kissing between them within her cleavage; his lips find their way further and further down her body, from her hip bones to her inner thighs, and finally begin to talk a foreign language using his tongue between her thighs. Abigail's body began to convulse again, this man knew every way of pleasing her, from tender kisses on the neck to ravenous sex at three a.m.

Rays of sunlight penetrate the room, blurry-eyed from a few hours of sleep, John woke to face his wife still in the depth of her sleep. Carefully rolling out of bed, he creeps to the door, past the pile of abandoned clothes after the night of passion, and drags on his long-johns.

Jack is already awake, sat patiently upon the patterned fabric, reading another one of his repetitive books.

"Did you sleep well, Pa?" Jack was always so bright-eyed in the morning, as if he always had the perfect amount of sleep.

Thinking of the previous night, John nodded, and proceeded into the kitchen; he should make breakfast this morning.


End file.
